Harry Potter and the Twilight
by huntsman34
Summary: It has been seven years since Harry defeated Voldemort and left after the betrayal by his so-called friends. Fate, however will not let Harry rest. He finds himself having to protect his former friends and discovering that all is not as he thinks. H/Hr
1. Angel of Providence

**Harry Potter and the Twilight**

by huntsman34

Standard Disclaimer: _I own nothing about this other than the plot. No money is being made. J.K.Rowling owns Harry Potter and all assosciated characters/events... I wish I owned this as I'd be a billionaire... I can dream._

* * *

If one were to take the time to simply stand and stare at the night sky, they would be blinded by its unearthly beauty. The stars were so visible, free to engage in their nightly vigil, the majesty of the universe bearing witness to the insignificance of terrestrial life.

The pollution here was low and the city was right on the coast. One could not find cleaner air unless they learned to fly free into the night sky. The faint tinge of salt on the wind and the balmy summer temperature would make for an exquisite night.

Only it wasn't.

The darkness outside the vestiges of human interaction was nigh-on impenetrable. For a long time in this city, the night had become something to fear. An almost viscous quality was present in the darkness, something cloying, something loathsome, like stains on a pristine white tablecloth.

At the level of the people the city was pervaded with an air of dramatic certainty. Something was going to happen, and it wasn't going to be good. Muggles, despised by the so-called elite of wizarding kind, shut their windows and bolted doors, unaware of what intuition told them to do this. Wizarding folk drew their cloaks tighter around themselves despite the warm air. It could be felt by the very energy of the place.

It was a night for pain.

* * *

"MOVE, you imbeciles!" he panted harshly. The throngs of people parted to allow the fleeing man and his cohorts through, piping up with ethical commentary to mark the passage through their midst.

"Vandals!"

"Bastards!"

"Get some fucking manners!"

The sights, sounds and smells of the Cape Town market assaulted Antonin Dolohov's faculties, almost overwhelming in their sheer number. The street peddlers, from corny acts to masterful cons competed for space with legitimate rivals selling their wares. Fish, meat and vegetables combined their odours with that of the artificial aroma of jewellery, cheap muggle electronics and even cheaper wine to try and combat the stink of the masses of people congregated in such a small area.

The unobtrusive natives clashed wildly with the brash and vulgar dress of the majority of the tourists, most desperate to wear bright colours to compliment the blistering daytime weather.

Antonin took in all of this with his sharp senses as he raced through the crowds. He needed to escape from this congestion! One false step and he could trip over anything, and then he would be lucky for his life to not be forfeit.

He quoted his mantra over and over again to sustain his efforts. Pure wizards were not meant for this kind of exertion. Magic was theirs to command. He had personally spent many years killing and terrifying in the name of his lord, he should be the one doing the chasing! He was on the run for his very existence and he knew it. Somehow he was unable to apparate and neither he nor any of his lackeys had a portkey on them. They all knew that to stop now to make one or to divide their attention to make one on the run was an unacceptable risk.

"Split up!" he yelled as loud as he could. His subordinates heard and did as he had commanded. He felt a small measure of pride in that. He had trained them well and had made a killing, in every sense of the word, for the past four years here. South Africa, jewel of the motherland, was a gracious, if unknowing, host to corruption and greed.

Seeing a small side alley leading into the shanty towns, he darted quickly into its dark recesses, noting two of his top enforcers, Conre and Mills, following him. Good, they would be a useful defence, and even better shields should it come to that.

Taking great care to not succumb to the lulling pulse of panic, Antonin took a few moments to catch his breath.

His two lackeys shadowed his movements down the thin alleyway, doing their best to disguise the weight of their movement and the sound created as a result.

At the end of the alley, Antonin poked his head around the corner, trying in vain to make out what lay for him beyond. There was nothing.

"Anything moves, kill it," he whispered fiercely at his minders. He was not going to die today. He would catch this thing that everyone feared, and be more powerful than ever.

"Avada Kedavra!" he heard Conre shout on his right.

Antonin turned and looked at the result. There was a newly-dead small brown tabby cat poking out from behind a bin, its lifeless eyes staring in vacant accusation.

There was a whisper of wind from above. Antonin looked up to see nothing and suddenly heard a dull thump beside him. Looking down he saw Conre folded up on the floor, a metal dart deeply embedded in one eye. The pool of blood collecting around his head was testament to his injury. He wasn't breathing. Judging by the penetration, Antonin guessed that Conre was dead before he hit the ground.

Antonin and Mills looked around wildly for the assailant, wands trying to point everywhere at once. They could both feel the heart-clenching fist of panic rising in their guts.

"That was someone's pet," a throaty baritone stated simply from behind them. Whirling around, they saw nothing.

"Not nice," the voice came from behind them again and Antonin whirled around, leaving Mills staring into the space at his back.

There was nothing, not even a footprint in the dirt to mark a passage.

"Had to put him down, really," the voice calmly stated again, this time from above. Both men risked a glance upward to the rooftop. Nothing could be seen.

Antonin, doing his utmost to analyse the situation, had to wonder how many of these people there were. There must be a few to be in so many places at almost the same time. It occurred to him almost immediately that they all had the same voice. His fear multiplied.

"Who are you?!" shouted Mills, evidently terrified.

"Ugh!" a strangled cry from his back alerted Antonin and he turned again. His stomach dropped to his knees.

It was him again! The same man from the mansion. The same tall dark figure, completely surrounded by a dirty travelling cloak, had Mills held in front of him like a shield. Mills' feet where not touching the floor. This thing was holding all six feet five inches and eighteen stones of bodyguard off the floor, by the throat, with one single perfectly placed hand.

"Me?" the dark figure asked, his face completely hidden by the folds of his dark hood, "I'm just an old friend of Antonin's here."

Antonin barely had time to examine that revelation. Did he know this person?

Without warning, the killer squeezed Mills' throat. The crunch of grinding coming from Mills' larynx told Antonin he was dead. It was the single most sickening moment of Antonin's life. Normally he would have revelled in the brutal killing of anyone, wizard or muggle. The pitiful cries and the sound of knives penetrating flesh, curses destroying the body and the gruesome crunching of shattered bone only helped flavour the experience so that it would never get old. Hearing the plaintive melody of the victim begging for life or simply to be killed faster was a symphony one could never compose, only swim in the notes, laying in the unadulterated feeling of power it summoned.

At that moment, Antonin finally saw it from the perspective of the victim. For the first time in his life he was ready to beg.

The figure threw the body at Antonin. He saw it coming and dived to the side, rolling to his knees, wand at the ready, prepared to torture this person for making him feel weak. It was the only thing that could assuage the terror and shame he was feeling.

Looking for his target, he was stunned to find him gone. The alley was at least 40 feet long. Nothing had gone past his position and he had not heard the telltale pop or the swish of apparation or portkey. How in the name of Merlin could anything move that fast unless...

...

Vampire.

...

The only thing that could kill with that kind of speed and strength was a vampire. Antonin could have chuckled.

He had had plenty of experience with vampires and knew just how to put one down.

Smiling ruefully, he quickly ducked out of the alley and broke his way into the first semi-secure house he came across. Pushing his way inside he quickly began to wave his wand in complicated patterns, whilst intoning rapidly in Latin and Gaelic under his breath. A small flare of light and a faint gust of wind signalled his success in constructing his defences.

The wards cast, Antonin slid to the floor to wait. The trap was set and baited. He drew his mother's silver pendant out of his shirt and held it closely in his right hand, ready to best the creature by exploiting its weaknesses.

Antonin had always been talented at warding. His experiments in this field could have gone to earning him a mastery in the pursuit, or a very good position at Gringotts or the Ministry, but Antonin knew where his loyalties lay. Lord Voldemort was his master and the finest wizard to have ever lived. His lord would have expanded his knowledge of warding, and for a time he had. They collaborated on the vampire wards he had just put up, wards to paralyse and control the vile beasts.

His own outgoing anti-apparation and anti-portkey wards would keep the animal confined to this room. The addition of a ward, to temporarily seep the room in garlic essence, and one to shoot down shafts of light imitating the Luminous Solare spell would further imprison the creature.

Granted, very few wizards could cast this spell at high enough power to actually kill a vampire, let alone multiple times through a ward, but Antonin knew the light would cause it great pain and disorientation. It would be all he needed to stun the beast. Stun it and keep it stunned until a moment before its death, where it would wake up chained to the top of Table Mountain, ready for the sun to pronounce her judgement.

Despite his confidence in his work, he was stunned that things had come so far.

Two months ago, his assistant had brought him a package. This was nothing out of the ordinary; he was sent packages constantly, some by those wishing to appease him, others by those wishing to eliminate him. Either way, each package was rigorously tested before being allowed in his presence. Antonin had torn open the package and opened the elegant mahogany box inside, only to drop back into his seat, his eyes wide and his mouth open in silent despair.

In the box had been body parts. The hands of a woman to be precise, and Antonin would have known those hands anywhere. Their graceful, feminine beauty, unmarked by the ravages of age was enough to place them, and if not, the ring on the right index finger told the story. The Black family crest inlaid on purest platinum. It was the only keepsake from her mother Cassiopeia and her childhood that she cared about.

Bellatrix Lestrange's hands, perfectly removed, on a bed of soft purple silk.

Were the contents not so horrible, the packaging would have denoted a fine taste in the sender. As it was, the note left little doubt as to the motives and knowledge of the purveyor of this atrocity.

..

_**Sweets for the sweet. Soon you will be united as you always wished.**_

..

Whilst in the service of the Dark Lord, Bellatrix had bestowed her affections upon Antonin, as her husband, Rodolphus, was indisposed, permanently doing research for their lord and engaging in his one of his, even to Antonin's mind, brutally sadistic, favoured pastimes.

It was not uncommon for the wives of Death Eaters to be passed around; Bellatrix was only an exception due to her vast talent for causing injury to whoever tried. She, one of the highest favoured of the highest favoured of the Dark Lord, only took into her bed those whom she chose. She had chosen Antonin.

Whilst he knew that she had never looked at him the way he did her, he was grateful for her attentions in a time when companionship was hard to come by. Rape and torture, whilst fun, didn't give the same feelings. When the Dark Lord had been destroyed by Potter and his merry band of mudbloods and blood-traitors, all of the surviving Death Eaters whom had managed to escape had gone their separate ways, each deciding to carve out their own little niche in the underworld. It was safer that way.

He had always wished to go with her, but it just wasn't meant to be.

Pulling his mind back to the present to wait for his quarry, he couldn't help but wonder at the turn of events tonight. It was so sudden! One minute sitting all alone, luxuriant in an 80 year old scotch, the next, chaos. It still humbled him that there he was...

* * *

..._ his feet up on his oversized mahogany desk, reclining in his burgundy, overstuffed chintz armchair._

_He was slowly sipping his glass of MacCallan 1926 Scotch, the most delectable taste he had ever experienced and the prize of his collection. He had three bottles. The fact that he had stolen these from the cellars of some of the wealthiest (and now dead) men in all of Africa didn't bother him in the least... to the victor go the spoils, and all that._

_Life was good for Antonin Dolohov. When he and the other Death Eaters had gone their separate ways, he had chosen the Republic of South Africa to make his mark._

_It was a fine choice indeed._

_Since the fall of the apartheid regime, the vast majority of the powerful Magi whom populated the land had left to go to greener pastures (i.e. - those more likely to encourage their own brand of prejudiced persecution of the weak masses) to continue their profits. The influx of the liberals and the presidency of Mr Mandela had, for a time, crippled the organised crime rackets of the country. This was not by any virtue of the law enforcement; it simply freed the "lower" classes to rise up and try to claim their slice of the proverbial pie. No longer were they in danger for simply going in to the wrong district or wrong restaurant. They were equal and for a people so long subjugated by the whims of another, freedom brought confidence... and vengeance._

_In short, it was a bloodbath. _

_Organisations crumbled whilst allies and enemies tore each other to pieces, leaving the environment free for Antonin to plunder. The lack of any powerful wizards and witches in the vicinity led the locals to believe him to be some sort of god, a mighty being able to dispense death with a simple point of a stick._

_How easy it was to manipulate the fearful and gullible._

_Wisely, he kept his expansion low key, not wishing to raise the ire of the Shamans of Northern Africa, as they were still a force to be reckoned with. He would not risk that move until he had a larger force of wizards under his banner._

_So far he had almost one hundred able wizards and witches working for him in some capacity. They were his eyes, ears and hands. His lieutenants and enforcers. They delegated the tasks to the muggles force, which numbered over two thousand. It was the largest and finest criminal organisation in Africa's history, both in magical and mundane respects._

_Antonin indeed felt that he had reason to be proud. His cartel bridged the gap left by normal organisations. Narcotics, human trafficking, smuggling, prostitution, assassination, extortion, it was all controlled by Antonin Dolohov. _

_And my, how the money was rolling in. _

_These past three years, his grip on power had become absolute. He was now, by his reckoning, one __(of) __the richest men on the planet. His fortune was in the order of billions._

_It was funny how one's priorities could change. In the war, he was so focused on doing his Lords bidding, building his wards when the Dark Lord himself deemed it not important enough to bring his own phenomenal skills to bear, raping and pillaging... being with Bellatrix._

_He had learned through the Daily Prophet (he still had someone bring him a copy each day to keep abreast of the conditions back home) that Bella was not dead. She had been delivered to the Ministry, handless, half-blind, scarred and beaten. A note was attached to her body with but one sentence._

...

"_**Vanity is for the beautiful**__."_

...

_Whoever had done it to her had in one stroke done that which over the years, even the Dark Lord could not. They had broken Bellatrix Lestrange. She was no longer capable of holding a wand, she could not properly see those whom now taunted her at Azkaban prison and she had lost the one thing more important to her than anyone or anything, her beauty._

_She was now a weeping shell of her former self._

_The news of Bella's dismantling at the hands of an unnamed witch or wizard was big news. The Death Eater herself was legendary for her cruelty, power and capriciousness. For someone to have so effectively taken her apart was terrifying for the majority of the magical world. It seemed portentous in that it could herald the coming of an even greater Dark Lord._

_Until that moment, the wizarding world was gorging itself on a sumptuous meal of peace and self righteousness. Since Potter had dealt with the Dark Lord, the world had returned to its previous state. Whilst the purebloods still had their say, they were now subject to the will of the masses. Democracy had finally come to wizarding Britain. Each seat on the Wizengamot being elected every five years, and the Minister every three. There had been little to worry about in the UK, as the bloated ranks of the Aurors, so necessary in the war were now being used for the rank and file assignments usually set aside for the usual DMLE agents. _

_There even seemed to be a radical movement present in the rest of the world. Since the fall of the Dark Lord and the scattering of his previous forces, wizards and witches unnamed had been targeting the Death Eaters. In seven years since the fall of the Dark Lord, nearly every former Death Eater had been captured or killed by people unknown._

_The methods of capture were always unknown, the prisoner simply turning up via portkey to the Ministry's holding cells, usually injured in such a way so as to prevent an escape attempt, a broken leg coupled with two broken wrists, a constriction curse placed upon the victim to tighten whenever they moved, etc. These methods were always quite inventive and resistant to removal by Ministry personnel._

_This was the only thing that was not disclosed to the public, that which Antonin had spent a small fortune obtaining. The charms and curses only wore off once the victim was secured in Azkaban, never before. The Ministry's most powerful staff __were__unable to do anything about it. _

_Add this to the fact that the portkeys used were utterly untraceable, not even reading as recently charmed objects, and the Powers That Be were worried that there was a very formidable, if unknown, group operating internationally. That the only people harmed were the 'monsters' of the previous war was the only reason there had not been a greater outcry, both from the public or the enforcement arms of the Ministries._

_Some people had even gone so far as to claim it was one wizard doing all of this. "Preposterous!" Antonin had said to that. The idea that one wizard could go through the protections that the others had built? Laughable!_

_The Carrows had been delivered to the Ministry in the same way as the others, the only difference being that Alecto was dead whilst Acymus was alive on delivery. The cause of death being that of being very neatly cut in two. _

_Antonin had visited them briefly in Russia some months before their capture. Their security was second to none, hundreds of guards and the paranoia of Mad-Eye Moody all rolled into a big ball with some very sophisticated wards. The protections had been sliced away as if they were mere wisps of paper. Nothing outside of a cohesive force could have done this._

_But then the gift of Bella's hands came and now Antonin was not so sure. The idea of __anyone__, be it Merlin himself breaking Bellatrix Lestrange to any degree was unthinkable. This woman actually enjoyed the cruciatus! _

_He looked up to his mantelpiece at the ornate mahogany box that still contained her flawless hands. It brought a smile to his face. Whilst he lamented her fate in a way which he had not even managed for the loss of his family, he couldn't help but be happy at how she had brought him increased prosperity even after her capture._

_Recently, when the representative from the Hong Kong Triad had come into the room, the man was so full of bluster and smugness, it made Antonin want to kill him right then and there. This eastern upstart from behind the bamboo curtain dared to claim rights in his dominion!__ Threats had been made and rebuffed, the Triad wizard getting more and more irate, until he spotted Bella's unmistakable hands on his mantle. It was a natural assumption that Antonin was the agent who so brutally destroyed her._

_The wizard was far more biddable afterward. He left to give his masters a clear message. Stay away from Dolohov and Africa. The man was powerful._

_He chuckled. He always thought Lucius the fool, the way he coveted money above all else. It had all seemed so fleeting to Antonin back then, so lacking in purpose. The accrual of assets... big deal! He had no idea. The way money could buy a man out of almost anything, the way even the most untouchable of officials would crumble and give __acquiescence__ when three times their yearly earnings were dangled in front of their faces._

_He took another sip of his Scotch, unpolluted by ice. This was his favourite part of the day, when he would take a few minutes, ignore the stacks of messages and reports on his desk and enjoy some relaxation whilst sipping something expensive and tasty._

_When the door to his office opened and Stephanie walked in, he was angry, but he quelled the feeling in his chest. After all, it could be something important._

_Ah, Stephanie. She was resistant at first. She soon learned to do whatever he asked, no matter what it may be. It was nice to have a little whore to do his work, be it correspondence or dropping her knickers at his command. She had thought of herself as tough before meeting him, a wilful participant in many a muggle torture. Her favourite pastime was a sick little habit of making offspring force themselves on their parents whilst under the imperius and letting __what they had done sink in before she killed them. She was indeed a bona-fide psychopath, but she was powerless before him. _

_He looked at her face. That was odd, her normal flushed countenance was pale and drawn, her eyes staring dead ahead over his shoulder._

"_Stephanie," Antonin said, "What are you playing at?"_

_Stephanie looked down, seemingly seeing him for the first time. Her lip quivered and for a brief moment Antonin thought she might burst into tears. He felt himself get angry._

_His anger quickly turned to puzzlement and fear as she collapsed onto his desk, a long blade – one of his own from the numerous suits of armour around his mansion – protruding from between her shoulder blades._

_Antonin swallowed. He knew death intimately, having dealt it so many times. The sword was placed with precision, avoiding severing her spinal column and destroying the arterial network of her thorax. The killer had known how to give her 30 seconds before she died. This was a message to him. This meant the killer was still outside._

_Picking up his wand, Antonin crept slowly to his office door, taking great care to make his footfalls silent. He would kill whoever had done this __slowly.__ They had denied him his whore and they would pay the price with pain and blood. _

_Upon reaching the door, he cautiously peeked around the corner, only to have the wind knocked from him by the sight before his eyes._

_Evidently the killer had placed extensive silencing charms upon the doors to his office, as Antonin had not heard a thing. The hallway was a scene out of the realm of nightmares. About two dozen bodies littered the hallway, some intact, some not so much. Even from his viewpoint Antonin could see that not all of the inert figures were dead. Some were incarcerated by ropes, others simply very badly injured but alive. Were this his operation he would have killed each and every person rather than leave any to come back for retribution. The thought both comforted and made him uneasy._

_Clearly the people who had done this were powerful. They would have to be, in order to do this to his forces, but why leave people alive? Were these people simply not thorough? Or were they so confident that they did not feel the need to eliminate everyone present? Either option had good and bad points as far as Antonin was concerned._

_A clear, throaty baritone cut through the hellish scene like a razor, "No one had to die here tonight."_

_Antonin whirled around, robe swishing dramatically in the wake of his movement, to see the source of the voice of one of the attackers. The figure sat on one of the seats under the rightmost bayed window, slouched over his own knees, his head facing the ground. The eerie flickering light of the wall torches cast the man into a haunting image. A dirty patch-worked travelling cloak, seemingly made up of lots of pieces of leather – _skin? _- held his body closely, showing only dark fitted clothes underneath. His hood was overlarge, folded and fell around the man's head, obscuring even the torchlight from exposing his face to the world._

_He sat unconcernedly on the window stool, his hands holding a wicked looking Katana, pointing the business end straight onto the floor. It was still dripping with blood._

"_This still holds true now Mr Dolohov," the figure intoned gravely, "simply relinquish your wand and we'll get you to Azkaban relatively unscathed."_

_/Why, the audacity! The-/ Antonin thought._

"_To be audacious would imply my taking a risk here," the figure said, cutting off Antonin's thought, "nothing could be further from the truth. Providence has found you Dolohov, I suggest you accede to her demands."_

_/A Legilimens?! I have studied occlumency for years... my ability-/_

"_Is not up to standard, I assure you." The man finished Antonin's sentence for him._

_Quickly taking the moment to try and simplify his thought processes and to purge all emotion, Antonin took a moment to think. _

_In that moment, Antonin was scared out of his wits. It was now crystal clear. This one man had done all of this himself, this man had been the one to apprehend or murder his former friends. This man had cut down his highly competent security force with such skill that he didn't appear to have a scratch on him. This man had entered and stayed within his thoughts without even the barest of feeling coming to Dolohov._

_Antonin looked at him again. The poor posture he was showing could not disguise the broadness of his shoulders nor his impressive height and size._

_The man rose from his seat and walked slowly towards Antonin, hands at his sides, after quickly sheathing his weapon at his waist._

"_I made it very simple for your men and women here Mr Dolohov. Do not fight and they will not be harmed, do not attempt to kill and they will not be killed. I can tell you that the only dead people here are the ones foolish enough to pose a real threat."_

_All too quickly, the man was standing four feet from him. Antonin felt his nerves quell by themselves. It was always this way. In his battles with the Aurors back home, the fear would recede in the times of action. It was the calm before the storm; the peace before the pain._

"_Give me one good reason why I don't dismember you right now?" Antonin growled._

_The figure simply chuckled. Not the slimy mirthless laughs he was used to but a laugh of genuine amusement. The killer would have been leaning backwards were the situation not so serious._

"_Because Mr Dolohov," the man drawled, fluidly shifting his cloak to give himself greater manoeuvrability, "you know yourself incapable of it. Otherwise it would already have been done."_

_Antonin stared, trying in vain to see into the empty blackness of the hood's innards._

"_The choice is yours," the figure continued, as if talking to a friend out on a midday stroll, "but either way justice will be served here today. You will pay for harming her."_

_/Her?/ Antonin thought, /Does he really think I know of whom he speaks? How many 'hers' have I hurt over the years?/_

"_How many indeed?" the figure quipped gracefully._

_Cursing inwardly, Antonin again tried to shut himself down, searching for the place where thought ended and instinct took over. The place where battle was done._

"_If you are the person I think you are then you've killed many more people than me." Antonin shouted. "Does that make you feel all fuzzy inside? Look at this carnage! Who's the scary one? You or I?" _

"_Enough talk Mr Dolohov," the figure said, sidestepping the question. Antonin knew he had troubled him and it gave him some small measure of satisfaction, "surrender or fight, which do you choose?"_

_Antonin pretended to ponder this whilst stealthily releasing his personal dagger from his belt. Suddenly he jabbed his wand sideways out of his robes, casting a pulverising hex, whilst flicking the recently free blade at his opponents face._

_Said opponent neatly, almost contemptuously, batted the blade aside whilst gracefully turning sideways, letting the curse rocket harmlessly past him. Towards the end of his dancelike twirl he viciously slammed his left elbow into Antonin's nose, crushing it._

_Antonin stumbled back, swearing, his eyes blurry. He quickly took a moment to charm the floor into quicksand, before shooting off several more bone breaking and reductor curses in a pattern designed to hold an opponent whilst hoping for a fortuitous hit._

_As his vision cleared he saw that each of his curses had missed their mark, not even doing the job of holding the wizard down. Antonin had the barest of fleeting moments to see his adversary clear the quicksand aerially whilst casually avoiding or deflecting his curses before the man's heavy leather clad right foot slammed into the side of his head, sending him tumbling through the air._

_By some vague fortune, Antonin found himself lifted over Stephanie's desk by the force of the blow. Landing painfully, a sharp pain lancing up his right arm, he saw the button concealed under the desk._

_It was the general evacuation button, or the BO (bug out) button. Only to be pushed in the direst of circumstances, it had but the one purpose. To inform everyone that hell had come knocking, and to get the fuck out. Antonin had never been so glad to have listened to the Carrows on that score._

_The alarm began to blare out painfully loudly. Picking himself up from behind the desk he saw the figure turn his head towards the walls. He plainly hadn't been expecting that._

_Antonin dashed out from behind the desk, his__wand blazing a trail of animation in its passage. Chairs, suits of armour, desks and wall torches; everything that was pointed at quickly came alive and advanced on the cloaked figure in a brilliant feat of transfiguration. _

_The killer was not impressed._

"_Really Mr Dolohov, is this the best you have? Lestrange at least put up a fight."_

_The objects surged toward the figure, who, with a flash, had his sword in hand, cutting a swath of destruction through the lifeless offenders. Antonin didn't stay around to look. Casting a hasty Reductor at the nearest window he leapt out of it, following falling glass shards down three floors in a stomach lifting fall. He wisely cast a solid Arresto Momentum at the bottom._

_He didn't wait to draw breath, quickly running towards the now overflowing guard house. The mansion was being abandoned. Risking a look over his shoulder he saw the same terrifying figure standing at his recently vacated window, not rushing to follow._

_/Ha, you've won this round you fucker! We'll see who has the last laugh!/ Antonin gleefully thought as he reached the remainder of his employees and with them the border of his anti-apparation wards._

_He received a shock when he tried to apparate. It didn't even begin to work._

_/Will we now, Mr Dolohov?/ that annoyingly cultured voice said in his head._

_Clearly, this man could bypass the most astringent occlumentic barriers and had erected an apparation barrier that none of them could break through, if the looks of sheer befuddlement on the faces of those who served him were any indication._

_Antonin looked back to see the man leap from the window and land perfectly on the ground three floors later, without so much as a sign of slowing before impact. Despite the situation, Antonin could not help but be envious of the almost fluid way in which he moved._

_Antonin turned to look at his cohorts faces, "What in the name of Merlin are you waiting for?" he screamed, "RUN!"_

* * *

Antonin, with great effort, drew his mind back to the task at hand. He kept himself crouched low, ready to pounce in a split second, his wand trained in front of him.

There was no crack to announce his quarry's arrival, nor any swirl indicating a portkey. He was simply there suddenly. It was noiseless apparation! Not even the Dark Lord had quite managed that!

The surprise made Antonin react a fraction slower. He leapt back against the wall as the harsh shafts of light erupted all around the figure; the smell of garlic was almost suffocating. He could see the figure slightly stooped, shaking. Smiling to himself, Antonin stepped forward, only to have his insides freeze in horror. The man wasn't in pain. He was laughing!

The man's terribly amused howls reverberated around Antonin's skull, keeping him off balance. "Oh that's _inventive_!" the man stated simply, as if talking to a student, "You thought me a vampire?"

Antonin could only stare open mouthed.

"Sorry to disappoint you old boy, but I don't drink blood," he continued, "but it is a reasonable supposition based on what you've seen tonight. I applaud your resourcefulness. Were I indeed a vampire you may have done me in."

Finally managing to break his stupor, Antonin stepped one foot forward, releasing his favourite curse with practiced ease. The normally elegant sounding, "Kashou sono seimi!" spewed gutturally from his mouth. Quicker than he could blink the man had dodged the whooshing purple flame and had Antonin's wand hand in his firm grip. A quick shift of the man's centre of gravity was all the warning he had before his wrist neatly snapped.

"Agh," the strangled, quickly stifled gasp escaped Antonin. One did not serve the Dark Lord without becoming familiar with pain. He looked up to see the man holding his wand in his left hand. He no longer seemed to be amused.

"That was NOT a very nice curse Mr Dolohov." The man snarled, sounding extremely pissed off.

Antonin did not give him a chance to continue and, withdrawing his dagger from his belt, he lunged at the man, determined to physically cut him to pieces. The man spun, and in the same motion grabbed the knife bearing wrist of Antonin's, yanking it and pulling Antonin past him and severely off balance. Continuing the spin, the assailant brought his right leg up in a devastating snapping arc. His heel caught Antonin with pin-point precision just above the temple, knocking Antonin spinning to the ground, severely dazed but not quite unconscious.

Still unable to sit up, let alone stand, Antonin felt himself dragged up the wall. When his vision finally came back to one picture, rather than the spinning six or so he had had to contend with previously, Antonin found himself firmly held twelve inches off the ground, his throat securely held by the vice like grip of this horrifying attacker.

"I was going to leave you relatively unharmed until you cast that," the man sneered, "leave you for the authorities to deal with. Now you've really upset me!"

Weakly struggling against the grip with both hands, Antonin could barely even speak, "W-W-W... Who the hell are you?" he rasped finally.

The attacker raised his free hand and pulled back his hood.

Antonin could not believe it, "YOU!" he shouted, hearing it come out as a wheezing cough.

The attacker nodded slowly. "You tried to kill her but you didn't succeed. I have no reason to kill you. Although she may, when she sees you."

Antonin could not believe what has happening. This could not be real. This man was supposed to be dead!

Shoving his face a few inches closer to Antonin's the man growled, "This is happening. Now you know who is hunting you and your kind."

Pulling back he sighed, "The Dark Fire of Tu-Fan, Dolohov. I'd recognise it anywhere after that night. I suppose I was a fool to think you would use it only on her." He seemed to consider Antonin for a moment or two before continuing, "Do you know how it feels to burn? Would you like a lesson?"

Antonin shook his head vehemently, not knowing what was coming. Suddenly his fingers started to tingle. The tingle progressed to annoying and then to all out excruciating. The smell of burnt flesh permeated the air, making Antonin feel nauseous with the knowledge that is was his flesh that was burning. His throat had torn asunder under the stress of his screams.

Looking at his hands he saw that his fingers had been incinerated, even the bones crumbling to dust and falling off. He now was the owner of two featureless stubs where his hands had previously been. Antonin knew what this meant for him. He knew it and it made him want to die.

He was quickly released and crumpled to the ground, drawing his hands closer in a futile measure of protection against further harm. His screams now whimpering sobs, he begged whatever deity was listening to make the rest quick.

"I'm not going to kill you Dolohov, that's far too good for the likes of you. You cannot hold a wand now... not only are your fingers gone but the dexterity of the remaining mass is impaired at best. You may, in time, gain some ability in wandless magic, but where you're going, magic doesn't exactly flourish in wizards."

The man stooped down to bring his face close to Antonin's. He reached out and stuffed a piece of paper into Antonin's mouth. "Remember this always Antonin; remember who did it to you. I'll see you when we meet in hell."

Antonin sobbed despite the paper in his mouth. He would definitely remember who did this, remember it until the day he died. He didn't imagine that that day would be long coming either. Without hands he could not hold a wand. Such a disability in the normal world was surmountable, human adaptability being what it was, and wizards would learn wandless magic simply because they had to. The necessity would fuel the growth. In Azkaban it was a different matter. The leeching effect of the dementors made it impossible to hold on to ones powers. He would go mad faster than most inside there. His death would come just as quickly.

The portkey in his mouth activated. As he felt the telltale tug behind his navel he knew he would remember who did this and exactly what happened. He had never been so sure of anything. Reliving the worst moments of one's life was the daily routine in the gaol known as Azkaban; he would repeat this memory over and over again until it drove him insane, all the while recalling the demon that did this to him, the creature who so effortlessly struck his existence into nothingness. The beast who made him powerless, and who had made his life into hell once before. The powerful demon, the graceful fiend, the scarred imp...

...

...

...

The devil with bright green eyes.

* * *

Author's Notes (don't groan!):

Major, MAJOR thanks must go to my beta Chloe. Without her help (and there was alot of that) this chapter would be a muddled mess of incorrect grammar and mixed tenses.

To all readers, I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading. I will be trying to update as often as possible, but given the nature of my job and the amount of work Chole has to put in to make my writing work it may be a month or so between posts. Hopefully every coupl eof weeks I'll be able to update.

I don't write this to recieve reviews, although they are very welcome, especially those which give plot ideas. If you don't want to review, dont sweat it. If you do, thank you very much indeed.

Cheers,

Huntsman


	2. Crimson Reflections

_**Harry Potter and the Twilight**_

_**Chapter 2**_

_**Crimson Reflections**_

_To everyone whom left a kind review (6 of you I believe), I thank you. Although I do not covet reviews in the same way that other writers do, I do immensely like them. They show me that what I am doing is liked and appreciated.  
As usual: I own absolutely none of this. No money is being made, which sucks as I really need some cash._

* * *

Harry Potter appeared soundlessly in his home; no sudden pop of displaced air, no perfunctory swirl of a portkey. He simply was present where before there was nothing. Others would have found this event an impossibility, to Harry it was simply a way to get around, like many other things he had learned or developed over the years.

He quickly dropped his cloak, taking only the briefest of moments to ascertain that the wards were indeed fine and untouched, before running into the bathroom and emptying his stomach into the sink.

That smell, the burning of human flesh, so akin to the smell of cooking pork, yet somehow so utterly different, it permeated everything, infesting every material with its repellent stench. The stink of a human body combusting was truly singular. The fact that he himself had brought this odour about appalled him, made him detest himself for his foray into the darkness of his own heart.

He heaved again, more bile coming up, the cramps and spasms drawing elongated sounds of displeasure from him whilst his white-knuckled hands gripped the sides of the sink for stability.

Devoid of fluid, Harry turned on the cold tap and drank a mouthful, using his cupped hands as a saucer. The crystal clear water washed away most of the impurities, making his mouth feel vaguely normal again.

He wished everything could be so simple.

He splashed some water on his face and the back of his neck, letting the cool liquid calm him. Looking up at the mirror, he pulled his hair out of his face and swept it back over his head, silently wondering when it had gotten this long.

Looking at the stark visage staring back at him, he was forced to admit that he did not look good.

His self loathing and vomiting had temporarily turned his normally tanned complexion as pale as a winter's morning, throwing his sharp cheekbones and incredibly bright green eyes into even greater prominence. To be fair, he hadn't aged badly, as the only sign of the passing years was the stubble which now graced his jaw. But then there were the scars.

The scars. Harry had accumulated a vast collection of bodily marks over the past few years, the most striking being a thin, white line running from the left side of his forehead, over his eye socket and down to his jaw. It was a vivid reminder of an encounter that had shown him his dire need to learn swordsmanship. He had been lucky to escape with his life. His body seemed like one giant roadmap of pain and experience. His torso carried such scars that he never wished to show them to anyone, but then, with the life he had chosen to lead, that wasn't much of a possibility.

Other scars, one running the width of his throat, one on the cleft of his chin and more, all served to make his appearance all the more intimidating and to remind him of the danger of hubris in combat. Each scar was an apt mark of rebuke for errors in his current life, and though his formidable persona was a great asset in combat, it also grated Harry's sensibilities. He had no wish to look so sinister.

Pale, and sweating at the exertion of vomiting, he could only shudder when he thought of his actions that night. Antonin Dolohov was a monster, of that there was no doubt, but that gave him no right to do the things he had done. What he had done was almost as bad as the punishment he had inflicted upon Bellatrix.

He suppressed a shiver when thinking of that night. The night when he had sunk so utterly into the depths of his own darkness, to emerge so different, haunted by the ghosts of his psyche.

He had laughed and taunted Dolohov. He had toyed with him, letting him run, letting him believe he had a chance to escape, whilst all along depleting his forces with cold, hard servings of death or injury. Normally it was never like this. His dealings with the Death Eaters, Bellatrix aside, had always been businesslike at worst, efficiently cutting his way through the protections towards his prey, and then disabling them with a minimum of fuss. He never normally resorted to physical violence the way he had done with Dolohov.

He couldn't escape it. What he had done was vengeance, not justice. He had beaten Dolohov for the simple reason that, to a man such as Antonin, being beaten by muggle means was another form of torture. He had wanted to make the man feel weak, pitiful, bereft of hope. He had wanted the man to feel just one piece of what Harry had felt when he had used the dark fire on Hermione in the Department of Mysteries.

He internally chided himself; he had long endeavoured to be able to not think of her outside of a businesslike mindset. It was still a work in progress. His skill in the mind arts had progressed to the point that he could no longer call it occlumency or legilimency; he was so beyond that now. Yet for all of his prowess, the thought of her was forever running loose in his otherwise orderly psyche.

He had killed these past few years, certainly. He imagined that he had killed as many as Voldemort had personally done away with. The only difference between the two of them was that Harry had only killed when it was absolutely necessary and he derived no pleasure from this; in fact he despised what his life had become, a never ending preventative measure. A perpetual cycle designed to keep those at home safe at all costs. He would hunt the darkness so that the darkness itself could not begin to grow. He knew intellectually that he was the only one who could, or indeed would do this, but that did not help to conceptualise it emotionally.

Seven years since that night. Seven years he had been like this. Not really living, dealing death and justice, letting all those he had loved think he was dead.

Looking back, he really had no choice, by his reckoning. He had been betrayed, purely and simply; by the two people he had loved the most.

At the time he had been devastated beyond the words to describe it. He had just woken up from a rather elongated coma after defeating Voldemort finally, and had walked in on that!

Naturally, he had been destroyed, and had toyed with the idea of hurting them for it, but knew he could never do that. Central to Harry was his sense of decency and lack of malice; he couldn't find it his heart to hate them no matter how much he wanted to. He just knew that he wanted her to be happy regardless of how she achieved that, or whom with.

So he had left. He packed his belongings, quickly and quietly left Hogwarts, and then England, escaping to the continent. _Let them have each other_, he had thought, _the pain will go some day_. _They can be happier without me there._

The first few months were still a blur to this day. He had taken refuge in oblivion, seeking the most complete of self destructions. He had no idea the number of bars and clubs he was ejected and then banned from during that time, but he knew the tally was high. Dyeing his hair blonde and letting it grow deterred anyone from recognising him from his face or scar. Contacts had replaced his glasses in a further bid at anonymity, but these were soon forgotten in the endless alcohol and drug fuelled car wreck that became his life. Anything he could get his hands on he would take, for the simple purpose of forgetting.

Forgetting was such an attractive prospect, almost taking on a talismanic quality in Harry's head. How could forgetting his life be bad? His life had been a cruel joke played out on fate's loom since the day he was born. The death of his parents, the eleven years of crushing abuse, the seven years of swinging back and forth between blind adoration and hateful animosity, whilst trying desperately to survive in order to have some semblance of a normal life all merged in his memory into one giant ball he just wished to throw as far as it would go. There had been good times, certainly, silly adventures with Hermione and Ron, getting to know Sirius, school, the Burrow, these memories warmed Harry's heart but they were just insufficient payment for the rest of the agony in his life.

The final betrayal by those he had let into his fragile heart had been the proverbial straw that broke Harry's overburdened back. It all reeked of some grand farce of destiny. Anything to make those memories go away helped; anything to help him just live in the moment, in the feelings of body and mind at that one instant, rather than those of a life best abandoned.

Then, all at once, his attempts at personal annihilation stopped. He was saved from himself. In another ironic twist of fate he was rescued by one whom would, on any normal night, have tried to literally eat Harry alive.

His life was saved by a dead person. He was saved by a vampire.

* * *

_**August 20th 1998**_

"_Fucking wanker," Harry slurred, "you're too pissed not me! Knob can't even speak English. Didn't even want to go in to your shitty club."_

_If Harry could see himself, he would have to agree that he was a horrible drunk. When he mixed pharmaceuticals into the bevy of alcohol in his body he got even worse. The past few months he couldn't remember much. That was just fine with him. He had not spent one full day sober and coherent, and he had no intention to, until he was unable to lift a bottle anymore, then it would no longer matter._

_On bitter reflection during his brief and fleeting moments of lucidity, Harry hated himself. Not for what he was doing, but because he hadn't the courage to end it quickly. Instead he was slowly killing himself, just waiting for the journey to be at an end so he could have peace._

_Lifting the bottle to his lips, he cursed when the sweet liquid failed to flow. He tossed the bottle aside, not even flinching at the shattering of the glass, but feeling somehow lonely without the comforting presence of his fluid friend._

_Looking around, Harry realised that he had no idea of where he was. The thought didn't especially bother him, he would find his way back tomorrow he was sure. The only thing that did bother him was the fact he would have to experience the mind battering come down once the dawn broke. The hated shameful walk back to his shoddy hotel room to get more money always took its toll._

_Where was he now? He knew it was Europe but he just couldn't hold onto specifics anymore. Looking at the architecture he surmised Paris... or was it Rome, perhaps Athens. He really didn't care anymore. The language gap had ceased to matter the day he realised that pointing at his chosen bottle whilst waving a wad of money got the job done. The dealers and street peddlers occasionally mugged him, but he didn't care, he always got his fix in some shape or form. He had plenty of cash, his parents and Sirius had seen to that._

_His foot caught on a jutting stone on the cobble path, and Harry went down hard. He couldn't summon the wherewithal to even raise his hands to cushion the blow. He just hit the ground shoulder first with his head coming in a close second. His vision greyed for a moment and he sluggishly vomited, leaving trails of Merlin knows what down his cheek._

_He chuckled softly, he really didn't know why, maybe at himself, maybe at his life. He just lay his head down in his own filth and burped, drawing up some more stomach waste. He didn't mind, with this feeling came the blackness, and the blackness was empty. No words, no thoughts, no memories. He would gladly go there. _

_There he could forget._

_The blackness claimed him._

* * *

_When Harry awoke he was disgusted. Not at himself, he had left any vanity or pride behind long ago. He was disgusted that the dawn had not yet come. It was still dark, and he still didn't know his way back to the flea-ridden hotel. He needed more money, the vague giddiness and lack of focus that came with his self imposed oblivion was fast leaving him. He was beginning to sober up and he did not like it._

_Sitting up he was stunned at the way his head throbbed. Looking down at his mess he could not recall how on earth he ended up here. This was nothing new. It was one of the most beautiful things of the life he was leading, as far as he was concerned. He could control what he remembered and how he felt, but not really control what he did. It was a fair trade._

"_Leave me alone!" a shrill voice shrieked, "Please. I haven't done anything. I've not fed off anyone I swear it!"_

_Harry wondered if he had heard that correctly. Fed?_

_The voice pierced Harry's consciousness, sounding so like Hermione's, yet so different. Harry felt himself become enraged. She was making him remember! How dare she?_

_Another scream split the air. Harry grudgingly got to his feet, trying all the while to steady himself. He stumbled in search of the scream. He'd have to give this girl a piece of his mind._

_Gracelessly bumbling into the offending alley, Harry saw the source of the commotion. A young girl, no more than fourteen years old, was being cornered by four large men in suits. The girl was shielding herself pitifully with her arms, whilst the men stalked towards her brandishing blades and some sort of short, squatted club. Harry tried, but couldn't properly see them, his vision swimming unpleasantly._

_Harry fumed. Why did this always have to happen to him? Had he not done enough? Had he not __given __enough? Could this side of life never leave him alone?_

_Seeing an opportunity to vent some frustration, Harry took out his wand and aimed a quick stunning curse at the closest attacker._

_Normally, Harry was a truly exceptional dueller, his reflexes and accuracy second to none other than the greatest of wizards. He was, however, still rather drunk, with the result that the curse completely missed Harry's target, but by some luck that only Harry seemed to possess, the curse impacted the crates behind the most distant attacker. They promptly fell on him, knocking him unconscious._

_The other three men whirled around as Harry aimed another curse, again shooting wildly in to the alley. One of the men withdrew something from his belt. _

"_Errore insensate," the man gravely intoned, before hurling whatever was in his hand._

_Harry drunkenly stumbled and felt a sharp, burning pain in his right shoulder, and dropped his wand. Looking down he saw an ornate throwing knife deeply embedded in his shoulder joint. The very sight made him want to pass out and vomit again. He was silently thankful to whatever deity watched over drunks and small children, knowing as he did, that the knife would have hit somewhere far more vital had he not been so cataclysmically hammered and stumbled before the impact._

_He pulled himself up, and pushed down his nausea, getting ready to fight the three remaining men. Looking up, he saw them advancing on him slowly. It would turn out to be the last mistake they ever made._

_The little girl switched suddenly from scared victim to ferocious predator. Releasing a small curved blade from her clothing, she struck. She moved so quickly Harry had trouble tracking it. She seemed to fly between each of the men, leaping with such a feline grace that even Harry, in his stupor, was stunned. Gouts of blood erupted where she came into contact with the men, their anguished cries echoing around the alley as the little thing weaved her tapestry of death, her blade a conductor's baton, directing the flow of combat._

_When she reached the last man, she leapt on to him, only to be brilliantly thrown aside. The man swung his sword precisely, taking the girls arm off in a torrent of gore. She slumped to the ground, holding the hole where her arm used to be. The man loomed above her, a maniacal gleam in his eye, readying his blade to strike the killing blow._

_Harry couldn't just stand by and see this girl killed. With an anguished grunt that brought tears from his eyes, Harry wrenched the blade from his shoulder, and held it firm in his hand. Not having time to wait for the pain and nausea to pass he quickly crept up behind the man. Hesitating briefly, he plunged the knife into the man's throat and withdrew it, releasing a waterfall of blood as the man dropped his sword to the floor._

_The little girls eyes lit up and she leapt onto the dying man and fastened her lips on to his bleeding throat. The man's colour faded quickly, going from flushed to pale in a few seconds. The girl withdrew her mouth just before the man's ultimate breath, dropping the corpse unceremoniously onto the dirty alleyway ground. She locked her eyes on to Harry._

_She looked at Harry with a hungry expression, the entire lower half of her face drenched in blood. She licked her lips, and advanced on him. Harry remembered the wound in his shoulder and looked at it. It was a deep hole, blood flowing unchecked from it. It occurred to Harry that that was what she was fixated upon._

_Harry looked at the downed men and his fear intensified. The men were not holding squat clubs. They were holding silver crucifixes. The men were vampire hunters. He had just called down death upon himself._

_Brandishing the knife before him in a pitiful and weak imitation of a worthwhile defence, Harry looked at the girl. She now had a quizzical expression on her face, almost playful. The way one would eye a potential pet at a shelter._

_Why did he want to fight? Harry didn't care anymore. He lowered the knife._

_Harry begged silently for this to be the end, for himself to not return as an immortal._

_He collapsed, the blackness claiming him once more._

* * *

_He awoke some time later, his eyes slowly opening; despite the gunk trying its best to stick his eyelids together. He slowly tried to ascertain where on earth he was, but everything, all of his thought processes and physical movements, seemed mired in treacle and torturously painful. He was a resident in the land of the side splitting hangover, and he desperately wanted to leave. This was, unfortunately, a common occurrence. _

_He looked to his side, looking for the bottle of his spirit-of-the-day. For a generous contribution, the owners of the less than reputable establishments where Harry normally stayed had readily agreed to keep a bottle of whatever cheap, throat-scorching excuse for drink they could find easily, on his bedside table. Why should they care whether a man wanted to drink himself to death? So long as he could pay the bill they really didn't care, and Harry always paid his bills in advance._

_Looking at the bedside table, he saw not a bottle, but a golden lamp. Last time he had checked, the kind of places where he stayed did not have any gold. The cheap bastards even tried to steer clear of wood, preferring durable steel and cheap to replace plastics as furniture._

_Looking around the room finally, he was shocked to say the least. It was the most opulent thing he had ever seen. Hogwarts looked positively plebeian compared to this. The ceiling was brandished with gleaming copper; the light reflecting off this bathed the entire room into a warm, comforting glow. The walls were of the same kind as Hogwarts, thick robust stones the size of a man which spoke volumes as to the age and strength of this place. Unlike Hogwarts however, these walls were not festooned with suits of creaking armour and overly-talkative portraits. These walls spoke of sheer wealth. Works of art, some moving, some not, created a quiet relaxing atmosphere, whilst beautiful silver wall sconces output warm, artificial light. The room was decked out in warm earthy tones meant to put one at ease, and Harry had to admit it was working; his hangover already seemed to be abating. He continued to look around the room in wonderment at the plainly one a kind furnishings, and the plethora of precious metals and stones adorning everything._

_His eyes swept the room until he saw the figure sitting deathly still at the end of his bed._

"_Shit!" Harry exclaimed, going from lying to sitting up defensively in a heartbeat._

"_Fuuuck!" he groaned as his head protested. The bludger running around in his head seemed to spawn twenty children and double its efforts to blow Harry's skull apart._

"_Agh!" he screamed as his shoulder awoke and declared its anger very loudly. He could almost feel someone turning a screw into the joint._

_Finally Harry managed to get control of himself. Cradling his head tenderly with one hand, he looked at the figure from between his hands, "Who the hell are you?" he croaked._

_The figure raised an eyebrow, "I suppose I should not be surprised at your lack of manners at this time, given the content of your blood. Or should I say alcohol? They were in almost equal quantities."_

_The previous evening came rushing back in full force. Harry's eyes widened and he scrambled out of the bed and across the room, the pain in his head and shoulder forgotten in the onset of adrenaline. He searched frantically for his wand._

"_Peace, Mr Potter," the figure said, holding up his hand, "No one here is going to hurt you."_

"_Where the hell am I?" Harry snapped, "And how do you know my name?"_

"_Your fame precedes you Mr Potter. Your amateurish attempts to disguise yourself cannot hide your innate power. It can be felt by simply being around you."_

_A thought suddenly occurred to Harry. He clapped his left hand to his neck, feeling for the puncture marks. He found none._

"_Relax, Mr Potter," the man soothed, "you were not bitten and you are no vampire. A foolish vampire made the mistake of trying to taste you when the smell of the blood from your shoulder became too much to resist. He was quickly killed."_

"_Right," Harry said, at a loss for something more potent to say, "good. Where am I?"_

_The man smiled, "You are in one of the guest bedrooms of my home, Mr Potter. Are the accommodations to your liking?"_

"_Well, er," Harry stammered, lost for words, "it's great. The room, I mean."_

"_Thank you," the man said._

_The thick oaken door opened and Harry's heartbeat accelerated. In walked the young girl from the previous evening._

_Harry backed up a step, getting ready to fight for his life. He wished to die, certainly. He had no wish to be eaten. He saw with some dismay that her arm was almost completely re-grown. Definitely a vampire._

_The man on the bed stood up and looked at the girl, who was busy staring at Harry with a hungry expression on her face._

"_It seems young Nafré has taken quite the interest in you, Mr Potter." The man said, smirking._

"_Like how she was interested in those hunters last night?" Harry fired back, "You do know she is a vampire, don't you?"_

_The girl giggled whilst the man chuckled melodically, "I think I would be remiss as a father if I didn't know that, Mr Potter."_

_Harry could only gape at the pair. When he looked closely at the man, it became quite evident that he was a vampire just as his daughter was. His flawless skin, the pale complexion, the ice blue eyes and the way he seemed to flow, rather than move like a clumsy human were all giveaways. He was locked in a room with two vampires, without a wand or any kind of weapon._

"_Besides, Mr Potter," The man said smiling, "I think her interest is not in you as food, but you as a consort. You should feel honoured."_

_Harry was rapidly losing track of the conversation. He had thought he was going to be mercilessly eaten and here he was being set up with a girl barely in her teens! What the hell was going on?_

"_Respectfully," Harry began, trying not to offend both of them; "I think she may be a bit young for me."_

_Both Nafré and her father laughed at that._

"_I think," the father began, "that, in fact, you are too young for her. However I have long since lost the ability to tell my daughter what she can and cannot have."_

_Harry felt outraged for a moment, what was he? A puppy?_

"_What happens however, will remain your decision, Mr Potter," the father continued, "My daughter, playful as she seems, is well aware that she owes you a life debt. By extension, as her father, I do also."_

_Shaking his head slightly at his own accursed sense of honesty, Harry found his voice. "She saved herself(,) sir. I don't remember too much, but I remember her annihilating those hunters. I'm pretty sure all I did was distract them."_

"_On the contrary Harry," Nafré said, speaking for the first time, "you mortally wounded one the best of the Vatican's hunters. He would have killed me had you not intervened."_

"_Why didn't you just kill them to begin with?" Harry asked, puzzled, "I could barely track your movement. I don't think they would have done much better."_

_Nafré smiled, "You noticed their crucifixes, yes?"_

_Harry nodded._

"_Those were very special enchanted objects, supposedly enchanted by Simon Peter himself to repel evil." _

_Harry looked between both the father and daughter; clearly confused._

"_Ah yes, the myopic knowledge of wizards," The father laughed, "Simon Peter was the first pope of the Catholic church. He was, for a time, the foremost apprentice of Jesus Christ."_

_Now __that__ was a name that Harry was familiar with, "Are you trying to tell me that Jesus was a wizard?" he asked incredulously._

_The father shrugged, "Having never met the man I cannot say. The Christians believe him to be the creator himself, we believe him to be just a very powerful wizard, who is correct? I can say however, with the utmost of confidence, that the magic he weaved, be it divine in origin or not, is far above and beyond anything seen before or since."_

_Beginning to pace, the father continued whilst Nafré smirked, plainly he did this a lot, "Simon Peter was the foremost of his followers, and the main beneficiary of his wisdom and power. Vampires, Mr Potter, do not mind crucifixes; we find them rather beautiful in their own morbid way. So strange how a depiction of state sanctioned murder is symbol of life and love to so many. Those objects you saw last night were enchanted to repel that which Simon himself saw as evil. This covers a lot of ground. Would you say that centaurs, beings also repulsed by the crosses, are evil?"_

_After meeting far too many centaurs at Hogwarts, Harry shrugged, "Annoying maybe."_

"_Precisely." he declared, "Vampires are not evil per se. There are those among our kind who revel in violence and death, but the same can be said for humans, or for any race for that matter. The vast majority of us do not kill humans, ever. It draws too much attention. We simply feed and leave them alive, and relatively healthy"_

_Harry shook his head vacantly, this was too much to take in. His voice just above a whisper, he had to ask, "Who are you?" _

"_Goodness, how rude of me. Please forgive me, Mr Potter," the man said, bowing slightly, "my name is Menetnashté. I am the lord and ruler of the Ra-Alun, foremost of vampire clans on Earth, and you are under my protection."_

_Harry, already overwhelmed and horrendously hung-over, could only slump boneless into one of the gilded chairs whilst his hosts left the room, content to leave him to his thoughts. _

* * *

_Two weeks later Harry found himself sitting next to Nafré at the head table in one of Menetnashté's fabulously extravagant ballrooms, in a fit of consternation. Menetnashté seemed to regard Harry, if not as some talented pet, at least as a prize to be gloated about._

_Evidently, Harry's legend had spread far and wide beyond the realms of Great Britain. The vampires, whilst apathetic and aloof about all things human, had been supremely worried about the threat that Lord Voldemort had posed to their way of life. Several emissaries that had been sent to ascertain his post-war aspirations regarding the vampire nation were unilaterally and brutally slaughtered, their incredible speed and skill nowhere near a match for the blinding power of Voldemort's magic. When their inability to even challenge the Dark Lord came to light, the previously untouchable creatures had felt their first liaison with the paralyzing fear that marked Voldemort's influence._

_His destruction, by Harry's hands, had been a life saving act for their community. Menetnashté viewed Harry as some sort of honorary vampire, yet despite this, was unable to stop treating Harry as anything other than human. Harry was, through no fault of his own, simply less than vampire, hence Menetnashté's odd behaviour regarding the peculiar human._

_This opinion was reflected throughout the Ra-Alun. Whilst most of the clan were somewhat perturbed to have a human in their midst whom was not one of their helpers or a source of food, they were nonetheless proud to have the slayer of the Dark Lord present. These vampires where, as Menetnashté, magnanimous yet arrogant, polite but patronizing, and it was driving Harry mad._

_The only bright spot in the whole surreal mess was Nafré. The little girl, whom Harry had to keep reminding himself was a very old girl, was the only vampire who treated him as an equal. Harry quickly learned that the heir to the lordship of the clan was viewed as somewhat of an eccentric by her future subjects. She frequented muggle clubs to dance without taking, what was to her, the liberty of drinking from the clientele. She wore the most curious amalgamation of clothes and colours, rather than the exquisite taste and cut shown by almost every other vampire._

_She reminded Harry somewhat of a vampire Luna Lovegood. The only difference being that Nafré was centred far more in the here and now, plus she had no odd predilection to harp on about nonexistent creatures all day. Harry had often found himself wandering around Menetnashté's gigantic estate with her, spending hours just talking, in a way that he hadn't since Hermione. _

_Nafré had not asked Harry to elaborate on the pain he felt regarding his old friends, and Harry had not offered. Even after however many months (Harry still had difficulty keeping the dates straight) the wounds were still too deep, too raw. Any deeper inspection would only aggravate the incessant agony. She did expound greatly on the details of her own life, seeing a way to divert Harry's attention. She told Harry how, since vampires could not conceive or have children, she was not Menetnashté's biological daughter. How when she was turned over five hundred years ago by a rogue vampire (the turning of children was greatly frowned upon in this society, Harry had learned) Menetnashté had taken pity on the poor girl and adopted her into his clan as his heir and given the girl her name. Menetnashté himself was over five thousand years old, by far the oldest vampire alive. He was, long ago, a slave to the pharaohs before being turned himself. His power and wisdom were beyond reckoning in either the vampire or wizarding worlds._

_Nafré had spent many hours showing Harry the delights of the cavernous Library of Ra, the largest depository of vampiric knowledge on Earth. The tomes held in there were such that Harry dreaded to think of the worth of even a single one. If some of the wizards in this world knew of the kind of magical knowledge present, they would spare no expense, nor any being, to acquire it. For whilst the vampires had little in terms of magical power, the most talented among them able to apparate and master a few basic charms, they craved knowledge of power. The library of the clan of Menetnashté was the perfect embodiment of their desire._

_The library, whilst distracting for a moment, inevitably led Harry back to thoughts of Hermione, the only girl he had ever loved. Harry, never one to be able to hide his feelings, was quickly led away by Nafré, whom, he knew, had taken it upon herself to occupy his time. He knew this was simply to keep his mind off alcohol and therefore his life before meeting her in the alley. _

_It had taken nine days of agony until Harry was deemed fit to leave his room for more than a couple of hours. The uncontrollable tremors, the endless nausea, the spasms, the shooting arcs of pain, the hallucinations, all seemed part of some penance he had to pay to re-enter the world. The vampires, whilst sympathetic, could not be swayed by Harry's desperate pleadings. His wailing voice and sometimes horrific insults fell on deaf ears. He was given, and made to drink, an almost constant stream of water, and fed the most Spartan of diets. Unflavoured spaghetti or rice, steamed vegetables, plain poached chicken, it was always basic and nutritious. It wasn't at all satisfying or exciting, and it wasn't meant to be, the vampires were brutally detoxifying Harry, purging him of his contaminants._

_After his 'cold-turkey' experience, and his subsequent platonic liaison with Nafré, Harry was feeling much better. He could never again touch alcohol or drugs, he was, and forever would be, an addict, and was determined to comport himself as such, restricting himself to water and the occasional soft drink for the rest of his days. His new found confidence came crashing down when Menetnashté informed him of the clan summit which he would be attending in the name of the Ra-Alun. The ten highest vampire clans were meeting on the estate to discuss the future of their nation since the demise of Voldemort, hence Harry's presence._

_Thus Harry found himself dressed in the most elegant clothes that he had ever seen, sitting next to Nafré, drinking water from a wine goblet worth more than the Dursley's house, and receiving the most unsettling stares from a hall full of killing machines._

_My, my, what an evening it was._

_The stares from the visiting delegations were, for the most part, benign, if unsettling. This changed when the doors to the great hall burst open._

"_My lords," announced the speaker, "I present his Lordship, Titus Leoni, ruler of the Sons of Mars."_

_The silence that fell upon the hall was deafening._

_The vampire who entered the hall with a small entourage was tall, easily six and a half feet and was the most singular being Harry had ever seen. His skin was even paler than Harry had come to expect from a nocturnal race, his hair the deepest possible black, falling in ruler straight strands to the middle of his back. He wore a plain black robe buttoned to the jaw. The ensemble, Harry mused, was similar to that which Snape favoured(,) but this being radiated a menace and walked with a floating grace that Snape would never be able to replicate. _

_Despite the fact that the danger the vampire seemed to exude was almost palpable, he didn't give off the same sense of sheer power and authority that Menetnashté did. One plainly coveted fear whereas the other naturally garnered respect, it was a strange juxtaposition to see played out so vividly._

_At Harry's confused countenance, Nafré leaned over and spoke into his ear, "Titus Leoni is my father's main rival for power in the world. He is only two thousand years old," Harry nearly burst out laughing at someone being 'only' two millennia old, "and a descendant of Herod, the baby killer. He wants my father dead, and was a supporter of Voldemort."_

"_So," Harry began, "I suppose that means you don't like him, then?"_

_Nafré looked Harry sidelong, her eyebrow raised and gave a gentle snort, "'Dislike' fails to convey the hatred I feel for that, that, monster!" Her voice rose somewhat towards the end of the sentence, turning into a snarl._

_Harry was confused now, "What did he do?"_

_Nafré didn't look at him, "He kills when he feeds, rather than leaving the victim slightly drained, andeven if he doesn't drink them to death, he will kill them anyway. He forces himself upon whomever he so minutely desires," she turned to look at Harry and he was shocked to see her eyes glistening, "he also killed my family and turned me. All for some twisted amusement of his!"_

_Harry felt pity, for someone other than himself, for the first time in a long time at that moment as she continued, "I wish so much to be able to avenge them, to hurt him! I just can't! He is far too strong for me; despite his age when compared to my father, he would be a challenge to even him in a fight."_

_Harry could understand where she was coming from all too well, having lost his family to a madman whom he had never thought he would be able to match. The pain was never ending for him, and he could barely even remember his parents. The sorrow and guilt at still being alive, albeit in a living death, must have been soul crushing. Before her confession Harry had a hard time equating her with a normal family other than her current father, (as) she never spoke of them. Harry finally understood why. The need for vengeance was something he could empathise with easily, but he wasn't sure whether to tell her that his pain did __not__ go away when he finally vanquished his parent's murderer._

_Desperate to divert the topic Harry asked, with a small laugh, "If he was a supporter of Voldemort, he can't be too fond of my being here."_

_Nafré had to laugh then, "He saw the Dark Lord Voldemort as his path into the daylight and the dominion of our world. I'd say he hates you as much as I do him."_

"_Wonderful," he laughed ruefully, "more fans."_

_As if to emphasize his point Harry heard Menetnashté's rich, smooth voice cut through the cacophony near the table, "Mr. Potter, could you please join us?"_

_Harry could only smile humourlessly as he walked the seemingly endless distance to the two vampires across the hall, every eye in the vast room was staring at him. Harry could only surmise that a human being summoned formally by the titular head of the vampire world was not a common occurrence. Harry kept his head bowed in what he took as a mark of respect, and judging by the lack of outrage from the vampires, he could only guess that he had hit his mark._

_When he finally drew level with Menetnashté, Harry was stopped by the ruler's hand on his shoulder._

"_Harry Potter, I'd like to introduce you to Lord Leoni. Lord Leoni, please meet Harry Potter," Menetnashté inserted smoothly._

_Harry looked up at Leoni, doing his utmost to shape his face into some expression of security or confidence. As he saw Leoni's face drop into a cruel sneer, he realised he had failed miserably. The bloodthirsty vampire looked him up and down, the contempt and disdain plainly evident on his flawless image._

_Leoni raised an eyebrow whilst shifting his eyes to Menetnashté, "This whelp is Harry Potter? This pathetic little human is the same as he who killed the Dark Lord?" he asked, his voice incredulous._

_Menetnashté's was unflappable._

"_Indeed," Menetnashté countered, looking down at Harry, "This pathetic little human," he said, quoting the remarks, he looked down at Harry, "neatly dispatched the 'supposed' most powerful being on earth. Strange how events can alter perceptions?" he raised his head to look Leoni in the eye, "Or how they should."_

_Harry saw Leoni's jaw tighten slightly, "Pardon me, my lord," he said, making it sound more like an insult than an honorific, "do you honestly expect me to believe that this being, who could barely reach the Dark Lord's neck, defeated him in single combat?" _

_Menetnashté smirked slightly, "The greatest of things rarely come in large packages," he quipped whilst looking up at Leoni._

_Leoni's countenance darkened, "I suppose I was foolish to expect manners from you?" he growled._

_Menetnashté stepped slightly behind of Harry, letting his hands rest on Harry's shoulders, "Manners are a way of showing the due respect, Leoni. Since you show neither my guests, nor I, any such respect, do not expect it to be forthcoming."_

_Leoni was plainly murderous, but he looked away from Menetnashté's burning gaze and Harry could see that the first round of this verbal sparring had been conceded by the giant vampire. _

_Leoni's meandering eyes locked on Nafré at the head table and Harry could feel Menetnashté tighten his hold on his shoulders as Leoni chuckled darkly, "Oh I __**see**__!" he exclaimed, feigning polite surprise, "you have taken in __**another**__ stray!"_

_Menetnashté's façade of congeniality vanished, "I see no strays here Leoni, only the occasional fool."_

"_Then what else can you call the scraps from my lips?" Leoni countered, latching on to the reaction from his host._

"_I call her my daughter and my heir; she has no relation whatsoever to a bastard reject from an incestuous line, long bereft of lordship and dignity."_

_Harry was feeling beyond uncomfortable. These two vampires were exuding such a sense of outrage and hate that it was almost painful to be in the same vicinity as it. He longed to run, to retreat from this, to seek solace in himself and Nafré. He realized that he was terrified and that he longed for a drink. Shame blossomed in his chest at his cowardly feelings; he would not bow and scrape to anyone, no matter how powerful. He had proved himself a man against Voldemort and he would be damned if he would let that be for nothing._

_Harry looked up at Leoni, "Nafré is worth a hundred of you," he growled, secretly astounded at how steady his voice was._

_Leoni looked down at Harry, who knew that if looks could kill, he would never have been born._

_Leoni looked briefly to Menetnashté and then past his shoulder to Nafré again, "Oh __**look**__," he drawled, "the scrap is crying."_

_Harry frowned, Nafré wouldn't cry, especially not in front of this monster. He felt the pressure on his shoulders shift slightly and Menetnashté moved. Harry's instincts, always so trustworthy, flared to life, signalling the danger._

_Leoni saw Menetnashté turn to look at his daughter. It was all the invitation he needed._

_The blade was in Leoni's hands before Harry could properly blink. Only his instincts saved him from being skewered like a kebab. He side stepped as fast as he possibly could, but is wasn't enough to stop the blade from sliding effortlessly through his right trapezius._

_Harry let loose something between a cry and a grunt as the cold, merciless steel nearly extracted his larynx. The shock of the blow was the only thing keeping the searing agony, which Harry knew would be arriving soon, at bay. He saw, with a fair degree of detachment, that Menetnashté had blazed into action and that he and Leoni were battling, their limbs and movements blurs, the air around them whipping about as if in the presence of two opposing whirlwinds, the jarring clangs of sword strikes and blocks coming so close together as to amount to a constant soundtrack._

_Looking around he saw that Leoni's escorts had already been dealt with, their mangled and eviscerated bodies lying close to where they had been stationed by their Lord's rear. He could see the members of all the other clans standing at a grim attention, every set of eyes never leaving the duelling pair, their fidgeting stances indicating an intense and overwhelming desire to intervene on Menetnashté's behalf. Only their innate sense of duty and honour prevented them. The men whom were battling were Lords. This had become a noble fight to the death._

_Feeling movement behind him, Harry turned to see Nafré leaping towards the fracas, her hands miniature talons extended to tear her sire limb from limb. "Nafré, don't!" Harry screamed as she leapt, heedless of his warnings._

_Menetnashté's focus split as his heir got involved, moving with all his speed he leapt; he shifted allowing his shoulder to knock her in to a table as he continued to fight for his life. Leoni, the predator that he was, saw the minute opening provided by the shift and capitalised. He shot his blade out, catching Menetnashté's on the hilt, knocking it flying from his grasp and quickly followed with a powerful kick to the back of his knee, sending the oldest vampire careening into a table, shattering it. _

_Menetnashté rose quickly but found the tip of Leoni's sword at his throat. His eyes betrayed no fear, only a grudging acceptance. He had fought and, for whatever reason, he had been bested. He was ready to die with honour._

_Leoni raised his blade to decapitate Menetnashté. A blur to Harry's right alerted him to Nafré and her desire to block the blow. Harry, close to panic, realized that the wonderful little girl was ready to die to satisfy the victory. To give Leoni the duel, she would sacrifice herself to save her father's life._

_Harry felt his insides constrict. He could not let this happen again. He could not let another child, no matter what her age, be killed in the name of a contest or war she was thrust into. The rage and pain bubbled and built within him, and the all-consuming pain he felt at this life only added oil to the flame of his anger. It was almost intoxicating and so __**raw**__, so wild and unrestrained, so overpowering and __**huge**__, that Harry felt he may explode. He raised his hands. _

_Then he screamed._

_No words came from him, only a senseless cry of incalculable fury. The hoards of vampires winced at the power of the noise, it sounded like a thousand people of all ages and backgrounds letting loose a cry of rage, the kind of sound that should never emerge from the throat of any being. The energy, restrained in him for so long burst forth in a gigantic flare of unstoppable, destructive magic. The blisteringly fast, huge, shifting sea of magic raced into Leoni like a runaway freight train. _

_The result was almost anticlimactic. Leoni didn't even have time to cry his defiance. He was simply and swiftly vapourised. The only sign of his existence were a few blackened embers of matter floating towards the ceiling. Luckily for Harry no-one was foolish enough to stand behind Leoni as the magical storm struck, the few clouds of ash the only evidence of the tables and chairs that had once stood._

_Harry collapsed to the floor, the pain of his body finally getting the better of him. He had never felt so utterly drained in all his life. He felt so empty, like he had just walked the equator of the earth whilst never eating. His consciousness wavered, swinging back and forth between barely awake and almost dead. He could not even raise his hand to beg for help. The torrent of magic he had let loose had taken everything he had, but he could feel the power swirling inside him, now under some modicum of control, but ready to be released. His body shuddered with this new found strength, some dam within him had burst and he was already overflowing with the magic inside. His physical body was totally inadequate to house his magical self, he felt like he was crumbling from within. _

_Menetnashté rose from his prone position, quickly checking Nafré. Their vampire blood had already healed their injuries. Harry could see Nafré's hesitation to meet her father's eyes, lest disappointment or anger be there. Menetnashté gently knelt down in front of her, softly pulling her chin upward to see her face. Harry almost cried at the sight of the quiet tenderness in the father's eyes and the glistening gratitude of the daughter who could not let her protector fall to her creator. As Menetnashté her up into a hug, Harry wanted to avert his gaze, feeling like an interloper within such a poignant moment, but his eyes could not be torn away, even by the strength of his own will. His heart was almost breaking as he saw the kind of parental affection he had always wanted, but had never received. _

_As Harry looked on, dumbstruck by the (to him) awe inspiring sight of a father comforting his child, and physically crippled by the magic drain and lancing pain, Menetnashté whispered into Nafré's ear. Nafré glanced at Harry, her eyes lighting up with unsuppressed joy before she nodded enthusiastically at the ancient vampire._

_Placing Nafré onto her feet, Menetnashté walked over to Harry and knelt beside him._

"_My Lord Potter," he began, stunning Harry with the depth of respect he was being shown, it felt as if Menetnashté had placed him in a category beyond that which he had ever placed a vampire, let alone a human. This being did not have to show respect to anyone, should he not wish to. The whole world had been his province and playground for untold centuries and he had beaten back that which had opposed him for the largest part of human history. Who was Harry, a mere teenager, to command such respect, and dare he say it, deference, from a being such as this?_

"_You have saved my life this day," he continued, his head bowed, "pulling me from the brink of death at considerable cost to yourself. The honour was satisfied. Leoni attacked you, involving you in the duel, please do not be troubled by the laws." Harry had not even begun to think on these lines, his general state preventing rationality, but was comforted nonetheless._

_Menetnashté leant in closer to place his lips next to Harry's ear, "I fear the repercussions of this event on myself, but more so for the effect on you. I can never repay the debt that I owe you, Lord Potter. I know you are gravely injured, but I must beg you to stay conscious during what transpires next, and to not raise protest. It is imperative to ensure your life."_

_Harry could only nod dumbly, his battered body and mind unable to process much more._

_Menetnashté rose, his gaze affixed to the floor, his brow furrowed. Raising his head, he called out in a clear voice, rich with the tone of command, "I invoke the rite of family on Lord Harry James Potter!"_

_To say that this was controversial would have been a huge understatement. The deathly quiet hall erupted into a blazing cauldron of noise._

"_You cannot-"_

"_A human?"_

"_The boy who killed a Lord of-"_

"_Traitorous!"_

"_How dare-"_

"_SILENCE!" Menetnashté thundered, the hall coming to an abrupt halt with the first note of the command._

_Turning to look at every face, Menetnashté stared down the patrons of his estate. Harry felt Nafré slide next to him on the floor, her lips going to his ear, desperately telling him what was going on._

"_Harry," she whispered, "don't be scared. My father is invoking an ancient noble rite. By declaring you as his family and joining his blood with yours he gives you the strongest protection known in this world. Every so-called 'dark creature' will be able to sense the bond between my father and you; they will know that to attack you would be to gain his ire. No vampire will risk that now that Leoni is gone."_

_Harry glanced at her, nervous despite his weariness._

"_The blood joining doesn't mean him feeding off of you, Harry. Please trust my father and I(,)" She beseeched him. _

_Harry nodded weakly._

_Menetnashté continued to stare at the vampires in the hall, daring one to object. Were the issue less divisive, Harry had no doubts the agreement would be swift, however he could tell that bringing a human into the vampire royal family was not something to be decided unilaterally._

"_My lord," one vampire begged, "we know you are fond of the human, but to bring a lesser being into the clans leadership, especially one who flouts and murders the nobility is-"_

"_Enough!" Menetnashté shouted. Looking at every face, he began to speak, "This human, as you call him, will be referred to as 'Lord Potter' until the end of days. Is that clear?"_

_When no answer was forthcoming, "IS THAT CLEAR?"_

_He received prompt nods from the entire hall along with proclamations of, "Yes, Milord."_

_Seething, Menetnashté continued, "How far has the vampire race fallen? I called a conclave of our kind to agree upon a position since a grave threat to our way of life had been eliminated. Lord Potter is the reason that we have this freedom. This self styled 'Lord Voldemort' would have annihilated our race, leaving a few behind to be his assassins. We had no way to oppose his power. Our salvation came in the form of this man here, whom has just saved my life from treachery, just as he saved my daughter's, and you dare question his worthiness to join my house?"_

_Harry could tell that the words were having an effect. He had never seen shame on a vampires face until this moment. _

_Nearly snarling, Menetnashté pointed to the spot where Leoni had just stood, "That piece of filth had, for many years, championed the idea of serving that monster for some ridiculous purpose of gaining power and abilities, all the while forgetting his station as a nobleman and a clan leader. I do not mourn his death, I celebrate it, as he would have sold us all into the slavery of a madman, and you dare list his annihilation as a reason for retribution against Lord Potter?"_

_Menetnashté looked around and visibly calmed himself, "I count myself fortunate to have met Lord Potter, as should each and every one of you. I hereby formally invoke the rite of family. "_

_Menetnashté reached down and pulled Harry to his feet by the one hand whilst Nafré pulled the other. When the three of them were standing in a triangle, Menetnashté looked questioningly at his daughter only to nod in acceptance. A nameless vampire came to Menetnashté handing him a package whilst bowing obsequiously. Receiving nothing in return, he retreated quickly._

_Unfurling the package Menetnashté withdrew a startlingly shiny dagger, it's blade laced with intricate carvings, the handle embossed in the finest gold and platinum. Jewels decorated the piece tastefully whilst the forged metal depicted Menetnashté's house. It was stunning._

_Menetnashté quickly but accurately cut both of his palms, "I, the head, offer my blood to the bond, may it protect the chosen."_

_The dagger was passed to Nafré who herself, cut her palms straight across, just as her father, "I, the family, offer my blood to the bond, may it strengthen the chosen."_

_The dagger was then passed to Harry, whom, still almost unconscious, had to concentrate and focus like he never had before. With his vision swimming, he heard Nafré whisper instructions to him. His stomach lurched and he just held back the vomit. He had a ridiculous urge to giggle. Knowing how badly the fatigue was affecting him, he decided to play his part before his tenuous grip on wakefulness was lost._

_Harry cut his palms straight across, from one side to the other, "I, the chosen, offer my blood to the bond, may it make the family my own."_

_Harry, Menetnashté and Nafré each reached out and clasped hands. _

_At the moment of joining, a great flash of light erupted from the trio and enveloped the space around them; the light was greeted by the sound of phoenix song and the hissing of a snake. The sound was deafening, both incredibly uplifting and decidedly sinister all at the same time. Harry felt his heart swell with both sounds. These cries were a part of him, their beauty indescribable. The sound built and built, morphing from a duet of magical creatures to the same layered scream which Harry had recently let forth._

_Opening his eyes, Harry saw the faces of Menetnashté and Nafré. They looked utterly terrified. Harry, seeing this, tried to release his hands from the joining but they were stuck fast. His feet wouldn't move, his jaw suddenly clenched and would not release. Pain started in his gut and seeped outwards, its horrible touch pervading every part of his body. Oh, what he would have given to be able to merely scream._

_His body felt as if it was breaking apart. He was a garden shed under assault by a hurricane, a man swimming in an ocean of horror. He felt the life leaving him._

_And the noise kept building and building._

_The vampires in the hall were falling over themselves to get out of the vicinity but Harry barely noticed. He just wished with every fibre of his being for it to be over, for the pain to finally cease. It was pain beyond imagining, throwing the cruciatus of Lord Voldemort into the realm of an armpit tickle. _

_The noise stopped abruptly, as did the pain._

_Looking around, Harry began to smile at the relieved faces of Menetnashté and Nafré before the light emanating from the trio shrank back inwards with an absence of sound. The implosion was followed by a gigantic explosion. Like a dying star, the bond declared its conclusion by exploding outwards, sending the three bonded to their own parts of the hall with murderous speed. Harry flew into the immovable wall fast enough to crack the stone._

_He crumpled to the floor, consciousness viciously struck from him_

* * *

_When Harry awoke, he was surprised at the lack of agony. In his experience, injuries and exhaustion, the likes of which he had endured the previous evening, left him adrift in a sea of anguish. Quidditch injuries hurt more than this! What had happened? Harry could only assume that he had been out long enough to heal. He groaned at the thought of yet more weeks wasted in convalescence._

_Running a callused hand over his unclothed shoulder, he found an ugly feeling scar right where the sword had entered his body. Another scar to add to his already overlarge collection. He could only shrug, what was one more?_

_The heavy oaken door swung noiselessly open to admit Menetnashté. Plainly he had been alerted to Harry's movements. Harry found himself extremely relieved to see the vampire unhurt. The magnitude of the magical backlash from the previous evening scared Harry, his magic had always seemed somewhat rebellious, always ready to break down barriers and shake the unshakeable, usually in very dangerous ways._

"_Harry, how are you feeling?" Menetnashté asked sombrely_

_Harry opened his mouth to respond with the typical "fine" to which he answered all queries regarding his health or mental state, but then had to stop himself. For the last few years, Harry had been living in an almost constant state of pain, be it emotional, psychological or physical. He could not actually name a day where he honestly been fine, despite his assurances to the contrary. The word became a mantra, a simple response to questions he did not want to answer. Regardless of the level of his pain, he had always been 'fine'._

_Until now._

_Frowning and decidedly uncomfortable with the sensation, Harry looked up into Menetnashté's eyes, "I feel... well, physically, I feel great."_

_Menetnashté smirked and nodded, "What do you remember about what happened?"_

_Harry did not need to be reminded, the events were painfully clear in his mind. A thought sprung up, causing him to panic, "Oh Merlin! Lord Menetnashté, is Nafré okay? Please say I didn't hurt her!"_

_Menetnashté held up a hand, "Peace, Harry. Nafré is very well. Better than she has been in centuries, as am I."_

_Harry run a hand over his newest scar again, feeling the protrusion of the scarred tissue. Remembering more, he ran a hand over his sides and his head. He looked piercingly at Menetnashté, "How long have I been asleep for?"_

_Menetnashté walked over to one of the ridiculously expensive chairs on the other side of the small room. Sitting slowly, he sighed and met Harry's eyes. The expression of quiet sympathy startled Harry. How long he been out for?_

"_You have been out for twenty hours, Harry."_

_Harry frowned, that wasn't bad at all. After the Philosopher's Stone debacle he had been out far longer. He had been expecting a disclosure about his being unconscious for months. Looking at Menetnashté, Harry was puzzled, "Right," he said, vexed, "well, that's pretty good considering the speed I hit that bloody wall."_

_Harry felt his newest scar again, his wonderment at the speed with which the large wound had been healed was astounding, "You must have brought in one hell of a healer," Harry said with a nervous chuckle._

_Menetnashté nodded, seemingly troubled that Harry hadn't picked up on something. Suddenly his hand shot out and launched a knife at Harry, who quickly ducked to one side, rolling off the bed. He continued his movement to bring him across the room, adjacent to the door, ready to make an escape, ready to fight, however he could._

_Risking a look at Menetnashté, he found the elder vampire sitting sedately in the same seat._

"_What the hell is going on?" Harry all but screamed._

"_Just a little experiment, Harry," Menetnashté answered smoothly, "please be calm."_

"_You just threw a fucking knife at my head!" Harry blurted, incredulous at the other's demeanour._

"_Indeed, and you dodged it nicely." Menetnashté countered, "Are you aware that although that blade wouldn't have hit should you have stayed still, I threw it as fast as I possibly could?"_

_Harry, ready to let loose a stream of invective, faltered. He had seen Menetnashté reach to his belt to retrieve the knife, observed the flexing of the forearm and the casual perfection of the throw, easily tracked the path of the knife until he had moved. Moving at full speed, Harry realised that he shouldn't have been aware that the vampire had moved before impact._

"_What's going on?" he asked._

"_A curious side effect of the rite it would seem. One of many, each of which I am utterly unfamiliar with," Menetnashté replied, "The ritual itself has seldom been performed on non vampires and with wizards with even greater rarity. My historians have managed to find one single reference to a similar event, whereby a Franciscan wizard eight hundred years ago acquired slightly elevated hearing."_

_Menetnashté leaned backward, draping one leg casually over the other, "It would seem you have rewritten the magic books yet again, Harry."_

_Harry's chest felt oddly hollow as he spoke, his voice almost dead with hints of sorrow, "What other effects?" _

"_Well," Menetnashté began, "did you not wonder why you are so amazingly unhurt after your ordeal?"_

_Harry blinked, " I thought... I thought a healer had-"_

"_Vampires do not have easy access to healers, Harry," Menetnashté cut in, "in fact the one we retained to fix your shoulder when you rescued Nafré wasn't fully qualified. She was the best we could find, however, and she managed nicely. Even if another had been located, there would have been very little he or she could have done for you, besides keeping you alive so that a lengthy healing process could begin."_

"_So..." Harry realised he had no idea what to say._

"_You healed by yourself, Harry," Menetnashté said gently, "and in a timeframe which is unheard of for humans. You were gravely hurt. There were five broken ribs, two crushed vertebrae, one broken leg and a severed trapezius. Injuries such as these, even to a wizard with the finest professional care would take weeks, if not months, to recover from. You were deemed fit a mere fifteen hours after the initial injury."_

_When Harry merely stared, incapable of coherent speech, Menetnashté continued, "Whilst this is miraculous, it is not as efficient healing as we vampires experience."_

"_No?" Harry asked weakly, feeling an absurd, and typically English desire to hold up his end of the conversation._

_Menetnashté inclined his head slightly before continuing, "Although technically for us this is called regeneration."_

_Harry looked at him blankly._

_Menetnashté, seeing his empty look, expounded, " It isn't really healing, as we are not alive __**to**__ heal, nor do we scar upon healing, but I digress."_

_Standing up to pace, Menetnashté entered lecture mode; Harry found it very reminiscent of Dumbledore, and he found that oddly comforting. He managed to steer his thoughts away from Hermione._

"_When we saw your incredible healing speed, we, that is to say Nafré and I, theorised that perhaps this ability was not singular. We thought to test your physical prowess as well."_

_Harry could only look at the lord in confusion._

"_Modesty aside Harry," Menetnashté began, "I am the most powerful vampire known to be alive. Since you managed to dodge my speediest throw with little difficulty, it would stand to reason that my speed and strength have been copied, be it in whole or in part, to you."_

"_Strength?" Harry asked weakly, not sure if he wanted to know what was to come next._

"_Indeed," Menetnashté said, "Speed and strength are extremely closely related in the human body. To move with grace and speed requires especially strong muscles to power the movement. Whilst this is a kind of strength different to brute power, I would wager that that aspect of my abilities has been transferred also."_

_Harry sat in a gilded chair and placed his face in his hands, "What else?" he asked, curious as to what new ways in which he was a freak._

_Menetnashté smiled at the question, "You may notice the lack of lights in this room?"_

_Harry looked around, puzzled. The room was clear as day yet there were no windows, nor any sources of light. It clicked slower than it normally would have done, given his state._

"_You have got to be joking." He said._

_Menetnashté shook his head smiling, "Not at all, Harry. Your sight is up to our standards. If you can smell and hear the porters bringing your midday meal, then so have your other senses."_

_The smell of the plain but nutritious food was easy to detect, as was the sound of the boots clipping the stone floors, "So what? They're bringing me food; I smell and hear that every day."_

_Smirking, Menetnashté quipped, "Not from this distance I'd bet."_

"_Where are they?" Harry asked._

"_Some two hundred metres away, Harry," Menetnashté replied._

_Harry let his head slump, his eyes closed, doing his best to deal with another right hook life had thrown at him, "So what now?" he asked, looking at the lord in dejection._

_Menetnashté frowned, "Harry, do you not understand? You have received the strengths of the vampires, this is a wonderful gift!"_

"_A gift!" Harry thundered, "How can watching everyone else die as I sit immortal be a gift? How can never seeing a sunrise again be a gift?" Several decorative pieces around the room violently exploded._

_Menetnashté shook his head, holding his hands outward, "Calm yourself Harry; we tested your sunlight response with a directed UV lamp as soon as you exhibited higher healing abilities. You have no allergy to sunlight, fear not. As for your immortality," he nodded at Harry's newest scar, "a scar is imperfect healing, which is what is necessary to be as we are. Your scarring is a fine proof that you are not immortal. Your ability to heal faster and better than any other human is testament that your life will be very long, for a human, but it will not be endless. You will age and you will die."_

_Harry breathed a sigh of relief, although extremely worried and confused by these new abilities, he felt very unburdened by the news of his enduring humanity, "What about Nafré and you, my lord?" he asked._

_Menetnashté grinned, the first time that Harry had ever seen a vampire, besides the admittedly odd Nafré do so, "Nafré is currently ensconced in the library, revelling in her newfound greater abilities in magic."_

_Harry looked at him wide eyed, "She's-"_

"_She was, Harry." Menetnashté cut him off, "Before being turned she was a muggle born witch. Her abilities were hampered by the limitations of our kind. Your bonding with her has rekindled her powers, as it has mine."_

"_You can do magic?"_

"_Well," Menetnashté said, waving his hand in dismissal, "I will be able to do more, once my wand is finished. I never had one before being turned, although I did experience the usual accidents."_

_Harry could only laugh, the situation was so surreal, so utterly absurd that it made him want to howl. He had been through so much in his short life yet the strangeness of the happenings seemed to only increase. First, he survived a curse that could not be survived; now he was a human with the strengths of a vampire, bonded to the oldest vampire on Earth and his daughter. As the shaking of his shoulders abated, he could only ask again, "Anything else?"_

_Menetnashté raised an eyebrow, "Curiously, yes. Nafré and I were, for once, not sickened by the smell of your food. Nafré, being the unique girl she is, decided to try the food, despite her knowledge that human food would make her ill."_

"_I take it that it didn't?" Harry said._

"_Indeed, it appears that now Nafré and I can digest human food and drink." Menetnashté said. He shuddered, "Although why one would when they can drink blood is beyond me. The food you live on is repellent!"_

_Harry laughed whilst Menetnashté continued to smirk. It was freeing in its own way to laugh again. He had not laughed in such a long time. Even before the betrayal (as he had taken to calling it) he had seldom laughed. The only instances coming from his time spent with Ron and Hermione._

_He stopped laughing. Their names still brought pain into his heart, and try as he had done to forget them, he just could not shake them from his mind. They had played the biggest part in making him who he was and getting him through his battles with the darkness._

_He supposed, looking back, that since Voldemort was defeated, their job was over. It was a horrible thought, that their friendship with him, Hermione and her romance with him, being all part of some job, a task to help maintain his sanity and humanity. He could not, however, argue with the results. He was alive and Voldemort was gone. Was it heartless and cruel? Yes, absolutely, but in the grand scheme of things his pain mattered little. His love for his two best friends, be they the real thing or not, would continue until he died._

_Now cured of his ambition to end his own life, he had an urgent desire to return to England and be with them no matter what the state of the relationship. He knew he could not, the events preceding his attempts at alcoholic oblivion had proved to him that the two of them were better off and happier without him there. Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the sorrow, a solitary tear slowly making a path down his cheek. He would never see them again, and that realisation, more so than the pain of the betrayal, hurt him beyond his ability to describe it._

_With this heart-rending feeling came one of acceptance. He hated and lamented what he had to do now, but at least he could accept it. He could find a new path in life, something peaceful, something that would, in time, erase the grief he was experiencing, something that could become his calling. The recognition in his mind of this fact brought about an exhilarating sensation of freedom. He had no idea what he was going to do but for the first time he realised that it didn't matter. He had money, he had time and best of all he had the absolute freedom to take his life in any which way he saw fit._

"_Thank you," Harry croaked, looking up from his bowed stance at Menetnashté, "if not for you and your daughter, I'd be dead in a gutter somewhere."_

_Menetnashté smiled, "Harry, Nafré, whilst not from the same parents as yourself, is your sister now, or as close as it is possible to be. I am not your father, nor would I ever try to be, but I would like to think of myself as family to you."_

_Harry looked up smiling; he had never had a family he actually wanted before._

"_Which is why," Menetnashté continued, "I wish to train you as a warrior."_

_Harry's smile vanished. He had never entertained the notion of being a vampire warrior, nor did he want to. His entire life, laughable as it was, had been a struggle, a conflict, a desperate fight to stay alive and stay sane. Why on Earth would he ever wish to continue such an existence?_

"_It's a kind offer," Harry began, choosing his words carefully, "but I do not wish to fight any longer."_

"_Harry," Menetnashté returned, "being my honorary son will not guarantee you absolute safety. Whilst the vast majority of the so called 'darkness' would never dare attack my family, the fact remains that I do have enemies. Some of which would like nothing greater than to get to me through the ones I care about."_

_Harry closed his eyes. He knew that feeling very well._

"_If the concerns about my enemies are not enough," Menetnashté continued unabated, "then you should also be aware of your own adversaries."_

_Harry opened his eyes as Menetnashté unfolded a copy of the Daily Prophet._

"_It seems that back in the United Kingdom," Menetnashté began, "there have been a spate of attacks by wizards and witches against the non-magical and those witches and wizards born of them. These are doubtless revenge attacks for killing Lord Voldemort," he looked up from the paper and stared into Harry's eyes, "A large number of the Dark Lord's minions escaped after you dispatched him, Harry. Some of them are nearly as terrible as he."_

_Harry's heart constricted in his chest, his mind automatically jumping to Hermione. Was she alright?_

"_Are they-," Harry started before catching himself, "I mean, are the muggleborns okay?"_

_Menetnashté frowned at the term but answered, "Yes, no deaths are reported, it seems these attacks were fairly amateurish and dealt with quickly by your country's Aurors. However, let this not detract from the fact that the Dark Lord's supporters, whilst scattered, are still capable of much damage. You must be capable of dealing with them quickly, hence the training I offer."_

_Harry bowed his head, unwilling to show Menetnashté his eyes. His mind and heart were in turmoil. His concern for himself was negligible. Whilst he no longer wished to die, his overriding concern was for the safety of his friends. He himself was, at current and for the foreseeable future, off the grid. No one could possibly know where he was and Menetnashté would not allow the word to spread beyond his clan. Hermione and Ron and all of his friends whom survived the war were in plain sight and able to be attacked. How could he protect them without taking Menetnashté's offer?_

_His mind went into overdrive. Merely learning non magical combat would not be enough for some of these Death Eaters. The prophecy was fulfilled, anyone could off him now. He had to be the best, the best by far. He would not allow any of Voldemort's diseased legacies to so much as inconvenience his loved ones. The magical knowledge on Menetnashté's estate made Hogwarts seem like a local public library by comparison. If he could harness the power of the tomes in that cavernous collection, he would be able to stop the Death Eater vermin before they even thought to hurt his friends._

_He could not protect his former friends from by their side, nor would he wish to. The only way he saw to fully protect the ones he loved and leave them to their Harry-free happiness would be to attack the Death Eaters, and any other evil, head on, to chase them into the darkness and to destroy them. _

_He knew that his magical strength had increased after defeating Voldemort and absorbing the Dark Lord's power into himself. It had further increased, massively increased in fact, the previous evening when he had vapourised Titus De Leoni. He could, nay he __**would**__, make himself the most powerful being this world had ever seen, and then and only then could he confidently protect his own. He would live in the shadows. He had no wish to rule over people or to live forever, his only concern was that those people in his life who had shown himkindness, even if contrived, be happy and untroubled. Learning to fight and move non-magically was the obvious first step, and he had one of the finest practitioners in the world offering to train him._

_Harry closed his eyes, feeling something in his heart break as he decided to do this. He would be alone in his life for the most part, and he could never have a family. This was just something he had to accept._

"_I accept," Harry stated simply, his voice cracking, his eyes shut against the onset of tears he did not wish to shed in front of the elder._

_Menetnashté nodded, and got up to leave the room, opening the heavy door, seemingly knowing the emotional pain that Harry was going through and deciding to leave him be._

"_We begin tomorrow," he said as he left. The door making a strong thud as it closed, a death knoll on the dream of Harry's life._

_Harry lay back on his bed, mourning his past and lamenting his future. _

* * *

Harry could only smile humourlessly at the memory, that forty eight hour period had been the most impactful event of his life, changing him from a broken boy wishing for death into a powerful man.

The training, to begin with, had not gone too well. He had so little familiarity with the incredible speed, strength and senses involved with being a vampire. His gifts had come from the oldest vampire alive and had been reinforced by said vampire's adopted daughter, herself an extremely powerful being. The result of such a joining was that his abilities outshone any vampire save Menetnashté himself. He had no control over such faculties, so for the first few days he found himself speeding into walls, crushing objects when he tried to use them and experiencing such sensory overload that he could only curl up in a ball and wish for it all to go away.

After he eventually fine tuned his control, he was found to be an incredible student, a prodigy of the highest order. Harry had always had a gift for combat and he took to the rudiments and eventual advanced methods of martial arts combat. Within months he was able to defeat any vampire warrior he practiced with other than his clan head. No more than two months later he was able to take the eldest to a draw, soon after able to defeat him on occasion. Harry's ingenuity in sparring and fighting came, in very short order, legendary within the ranks of the Ra-Alun.

Harry himself ate, slept and bled competition. He had set himself a lofty goal and was determined to achieve it. When he was not training in his hand to hand methods, he was poring over the library, extracting every nugget of knowledge he could find. His studies, whilst laborious and almost painful for his unaccustomed mind (he ruefully admitted that Hermione would have been so much better at it) were exhilarating and extremely fulfilling. After mastering occlumency and legilimency he was far more easily able to retain and process information, this lead to his studies becoming far broader ranging. His self imposed duty quickly became an obsession in which he immersed himself, every book on every subject he could find he began to devour, finally understanding his former love's propensity to lose herself in the pages of a book.

Shaking his head, Harry drew his mind back from the past, careful to not give it too much power in the present. Normally his command of the mental arts was such that he could calm and centre himself at any time, allowing him to be calm, thoughtful and without passion twenty four hours a day. Such mastery was not purchased without considerable pain on Harry's part, as he had been the student of many teachers, not just the vampires, each tutelage a step on the way to becoming the person he was.

He knew he was a cold man. It was necessary to maintain focus and discipline at all times, without which he would have been killed many times over, when emotions would have inevitably gotten the better of him and led to a fatal mistake. His emotions were always present; he merely exerted a control over them which would make the strongest of monks jealous.

It was days like the previous evening, when he **had **lost control and taken refuge in those emotions which were the problem. Technically speaking, two lapses in seven years was an excellent record, but when dealing with the situations he did, with the kind of seductive power he did, excellent was insufficient, and perfection was all that was allowable. Days like the previous evening made his control crack. It needed to be rebuilt.

Making his way through his dwelling, he entered the one empty room in the entire place; a gently lit twenty feet by twenty feet square space decked in neutral tones and gentle padding, a room specifically designed to sooth the senses and the body and eliminate distractions. It was his favourite place to centre himself when his mind raged out of control. Luckily, he rarely had to use it.

When he had constructed this abode to serve as his base, he had not intended to stay in one place for so long; he had been unable to find a decent reason to leave. The entire place was deep underground, entry only possible through apparition and then only if the wards recognised the incoming magical signature. It was an unheard of blend of the magical and the technological; muggle computers competed for space with vast shelves straining under the weight of millennia of knowledge contained in thick, intimidating tomes.

The entire base was a study in aesthetic minimalism, the only things present were that which Harry himself deemed absolutely necessary. His bedroom consisted of a large bed with no mattress (to keep his back in good strong) which he hardly ever used, preferring to spend the little sleep he had sitting upright in the accompanying armchair with his weapons at the ready. The only rooms with any excess were the kitchen and the gymnasium, each fitted with the most advanced of conveniences to allow him the most optimum nutrition and exercise to keep himself at his most lethal, strong, fast and healthy.

The thought of Hermione, and to a lesser extent Ron, surfaced again in his otherwise locked-tight psyche, his thoughts inevitably wondering what they would think if they could see him, a scarred warrior, doing his utmost to control the emotional storm within him, to batter it back to the stronghold from where it had briefly escaped from. Would they be disgusted by his conduct with Dolohov? They certainly had every reason to be. Harry himself could not look himself in the mirror, as he knew what he had done was despicable and he did not deserve to be treated with any respect. He needed to lose himself in the swirling currents of magic that infused everything, to release his mind from his body and lose everything but his own true self, to reassemble the armour inside his head better than it had been before.

As he pondered the previous evening, ordering his thoughts, he realised it had been too long since he had checked up on his former friends. His activities had become even more frequent as of late and he had not had the time to get reports from the informants he had placed within the British wizarding world, he would need to meet with them soon to make sure that both Ron and Hermione, his dear treacherous friends, were okay and untroubled.

In the meantime he was contented with losing himself in the ether of magical energy that permeated everything, from the soul of the lowliest being to the core of the most distant star.

He sat on the padded floor, relaxed, to rest and rebuild his stength.

..

To hold together the hardened pieces of his shattered heart, one day at a time.

* * *

Obligatory author notes:

Special thanks again to my beta Chloe. Without her tireless efforts this story would not be half of what it is.

CodeWarriorAce: Thanks very much, I read you story "Internal Magic" and loved what you have done so far.

Regarding the flashbacks, I tried to organise the story so that the flashbacks and the "present day" storylines proceed in a linear fashion but this just wasn't possible. As such the flashbacks will jump around a bit, I will be dating each of the flashbacks when they begin to let the reader know where in Harry's past we are treading.

Cheers,

Huntsman


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